Make A Wish
by michellemybelle25
Summary: The significance of a birthday.


Hello, all! I hope everyone had a nice and productive summer! Mine has been crazy, but at least there was a vacation somewhere in the madness, which now seems like a luxurious dream we didn't actually live, but isn't that how all vacations inevitably feel? Anyway, it's been awhile since I posted anything new! I know you've all been patiently waiting, and I owe you! This is one of the little one shots I wrote while in Colorado for my concert. It was a random idea to entertain me while on the plane; I needed a good distraction from flying! I hope you like it!

SUMMARY: The significance of a birthday.

"Make A Wish"

A strange sense of anticipation buzzed through the opera house. Erik noted the unfamiliar sensation the instant he abandoned the shadows underground and stepped into the light. It was odd. He was accustomed to these sorts of eager ripples in the air near a show's opening, final dress rehearsal jitters, but not on what he perceived to be any other ordinary day.

Curiosity was an emotion he didn't typically indulge or fall to. What good could come from wondering over the unknown? He'd learned that lesson long ago. But…where was Christine?

She was the fixation of his every thought, every heartbeat, and from the instant he arrived in the world above, she was always his focus, carrying his stare with her every step. He'd once been an angel for her sake, a heavenly being with a body she'd considered intangible. Ah yes, because angels needed wings to validly exist, and he had no wings, only a mask. But now…masks were off in a literal sense. She knew his corporeal makeup, knew he was nothing but a worthless man without even a full face to offer for her regard, and though the shock was wearing off with every second spent in each other's sight, he still carried an unqualified fear for the day she'd run. It was bound to happen as far as he was concerned. He was the _Opera Ghost_; blessings were saved for the real sort of angels, not demons and haunted spirits in hell.

But…well, maybe today was the day. Maybe the undercurrent of electricity flooding the corridors was in speculation of her departure. Maybe…she'd finally given up on him and the sordid relationship they indulged in broken pieces. He worried and agonized until anxiety built like a knot in his belly and made his usually graceful motions clumsy and stuttered as he rushed to the rafters above and a bird's eye view. …Where was she?

On the opera stage, the ballerinas were in a gaggle of gossip, whispering idly behind lifted hands with high-pitched giggles that escaped and ignited infuriation to new heights. They had a secret, shared and communal, and Erik was unusually terrified of their puffed consonants and gasped phrases. For once, their prattle might have valid substance, and when he otherwise would have ignored the incessancy, he now strained to overhear from his spot above their frantically moving heads. Oh, …what could this mean?

To a mixture of relief and unavoidable aggravation, the next set of steps lighting the wooden floor brought the object of his every obsession. _Christine_… And the moment she appeared, before Erik even had the chance to marvel over her beauty, the pod of tutus broke apart and leapt up and down with giddy exhilaration like a disjunct carnival game.

"Happy birthday, Christine!" they chanted in an ugly cacophony of random, squeaked pitches that Erik sneered disgust to suffer. But Christine glowed and laughed with their zeal, clapping her little hands with delight.

_Birthday_… Erik pondered the new information as he ran an envious gaze over her from head to toe and back again. Her birthday, and she'd made no mention of it, never attempting to share the news of its approach with him. Perhaps she believed he wouldn't understand, and in truth, he didn't. Celebrating the day of one's arrival on the mortal plane of life… It seemed futile and utterly narcissistic. It meant believing oneself created enough of an impact to matter, and when his had only existed in a negative vein, he could not share such ignorant sentimentality. But… _Christine_ deserved to have hers appreciated and savored. _Christine_ lived an existence that changed the world, …_his_ world.

Following the tug of a desperate heart, he adored her in his gaze. She could never realize the effect she had over a man who cowered and bowed to no one, not even God Himself. She had the power to destroy his epithet and build him a new one; he wished she knew it.

Onstage, the ballerinas chirped onward like little birds, never still or silent for an instant as they surrounded Christine in accolades and well wishes. Their little impromptu celebration drew out its unending minutes until the ballet mistress, Madame Giry, finally exited the wings and called for attention from her fluttering pupils. Almost instantly, all chatter stopped mid-squeak, and little legs rushed in a flurry after their instructor's directions without delay.

Erik was thrilled to rid the space of their obnoxious babbling, and although Madame Giry lingered long enough to pat Christine's arm with a fond endearment when she, too, left, Christine was alone, center-stage with her excitement slowly drifting off the way her comrades had gone.

He had an urge to call to her, to draw notice to his constant regard, to speak something akin to the jubilation of the others, but before he could act, he lost his chance.

"Christine…"

The Vicomte de Chagny. Erik cringed his annoyance, and his temper only surged to watch the gallant, self-proclaimed hero rush forward and catch Christine's hands in his. He touched as if he had a right, and Erik glared and swallowed urgent impulses to teach him otherwise.

"Raoul!" Christine exclaimed with a soft gasp. The Vicomte's sudden appearance was a surprise and threw her out of her daydreaming mind. She shifted idly beneath his determined attention, but it was difficult to retain her astonishment when he gave his most charming grin and squeezed her hands in his. "What are you doing here? You know you shouldn't attend my rehearsals. You will stir up nothing but gossip, and I will be the one to suffer its wrath."

"As if I could stay away on your birthday!" Raoul gushed, and before she could decide if she should protest, he drew her close by joined hands and hugged her to his chest. "Happy birthday, darling one."

She permitted, but her heart fluttered in whispered warnings. She knew that she had an angel who rarely let her out of his watching guard, and if he saw an embrace on the stage… She didn't want to consider the consequences.

Ducking her dark head, she managed to shrink out of his hold and put up a shy pretense. "Raoul, you are too much! You should know better than showy affection and stolen hugs when the mangers are destined to be in at any moment."

He chuckled as if her arguments held no weight and concluded, "They will speak not a single word against me, and you, my dear, may now consider yourself to have solid and unbreakable lunch plans."

"Indeed?" she posed with skeptically arched brows. "And what will such plans entail?"

"Surprises to be sure!" he exclaimed and captured her hand again. "I'd prefer to usurp supper as well and take you away the instant rehearsal ends, but I know I shall be scolded and told for the tenth time that you have a necessary lesson and will not consider telling your teacher that you wish a night off. I would dub myself understanding and agreeable to _settle_ for lunch when in truth, I think if you explained what day it is to your adamant teacher, he'd give you your freedom. You can ask it as your birthday wish!"

"No," she immediately concluded, "he wouldn't understand, and…my lessons must come first no matter the day."

How could she argue such an unorthodox situation about the teacher Raoul was unaware of beyond name? Perhaps if he'd met Erik, he could reason why such ideas were unfathomable. Music was all Erik lived and breathed for, and even if Christine could not feel it to the same extent, her teacher expected full commitment and never a single point of failure. And birthdays…well, they would be no more than another outside nuisance from a world Erik preferred not to acknowledge.

"Christine," Raoul pushed with that charming grin again. "What if I spoke to him on your behalf? Or better yet, insisted I had a birthday surprise arranged, and surely he _must_ understand that plans cannot be cancelled so late. I will take full blame and appeal to his sense of compassion."

She wasn't sure Erik had one when music would be the victim, but she didn't share the thought. She was convicted that Raoul have no idea of Erik's true identity or temperament. The instant he learned the truth, illusions would shatter and he'd remind her of the realities she so often chose to denounce where Erik was concerned.

Squeezing Raoul's hand as a sort of compromise, she concluded, "Lunch will be more than enough, and you may spoil me as you will then. Anything else, well, it just isn't practical right now. I cannot surrender my lesson time if I wish to succeed. Things like birthdays don't mean that much anyway. They return every year, but chances at something as wondrous as singing the lead and being the prima donna for more than a single night, …such opportunities only come once."

Huffing his disdain, he lifted joined hands to his lips and brushed a tender kiss to her knuckles. "All right. I will settle for lunch, but when you are the prima donna, I expect a full day to indulge you instead of a measly hour. Prima donnas always have their every wish granted, and that will be yours. We'll celebrate your birthday no matter the date on a calendar; you should be worshipped every day, Christine." One more kiss claiming her hand with his sweet gesture, and he bid, "Lunch. I expect no excuses."

And with that, he left her on the stage. Her smile went with him, following his exit and fleeing behind his shadow as anxiety took its spot. Held hands and embraces prominently displayed… She cast a nervous glance at the silent theatre, wondering if such liberties had been spied upon and dubbed transgressions. Erik loathed the Vicomte and denounced his attachment to her, and despite promises that Raoul was only a friend and would not interfere in the music, he made his suspicion known. She was doubtless he had a right to it.

Her gaze came to rest on Box 5, and for the quickest instant, she thought she saw a shadow. It blended back with its conspirators before she could fully etch it into existence, and only her own soft catch of breath insisted she'd seen anything at all. If it had been a ghost or an angel on the prowl, it was gone and obviously hadn't wanted to be observed. Perhaps ghosts only preferred to haunt the ignorant, and she would never have the blessing of naïveté again. Her ghost was a man of flesh and bone, and if _he_ haunted, it could have only tragedy as its ending.

* * *

Birthday surprises and lunches with vicomtes, and Erik was sickened with every thought of their upcoming interlude. He paced the confines behind Christine's dressing room mirror and tormented himself with fabrications of their time together. Of course a vicomte would lavish her with every luxury money could buy. Presents, an elegant meal, entertainment at its best. In the meager span of the hour the cast was granted, it was difficult to deem the details of his plans, but they were sure to be memorable enough to keep his image in Christine's mind all evening. It hardly seemed fair. Erik hadn't even been worthy to be told a birthday's date to have a decent chance at a rebuttal. How could he compete with what he wasn't supposed to know?

Lunch hour was approaching, and with uneasiness tearing at his soul, he abandoned his protected space and took to his hidden passageways. This would be unexpected. He was the Opera Ghost, and dark was his ally. But for her… He'd give up everything he knew and every nuance of his scripted existence. Yes, _for her_.

Silent as the grave, he emerged into the world as if naming himself a valid participant in its typical indulgences. Yes, as if he _belonged_. He took the unoccupied corridors and exited through the back door into an equally empty alleyway. Daylight was no more than meager strips between buildings, unable to fully enter and illuminate as it liked, and therefore shadows didn't have to abandon him yet. They could loll about his dark shape and conceal…as long as he kept his face low and mask out of view. Because one turn of his head, and that accursed object beamed with an internal glow that insisted its presence in its own voice. Nothing to betray, and he lingered back until the bustle of bodies on the sidewalk just beyond his shadow friends told him it was time.

In preliminary plotting, he had considered this a wonderful idea. Follow the happy couple, careful, of course, to avoid capture by the public eye, spy as if he had confirmed reason for suspicion. But as he executed the fine points, he found difficulties he hadn't anticipated. By the harsh glare of a brilliant sun, he had to keep a safe distance away, hovering at the furthest edge of the sidewalk for fear of exposure. His focus was Christine: her dark curls glinting in strawberry under the sunglow, her pale features beaming with her grin as she gazed up at the Vicomte beside her, her laughter pouring over the continuous murmur of sound from the over-laden walkways. _His_ Christine, on the arm of another man… The sting was deep and biting and left him clenching fists at his sides in rising aggression. The voice in his head said _attack_, but he appeased it with his continued pursuit. He would be near and watch, look for one valid proof, just one to justify retribution.

But as the happy couple arrived at their destination, all vengeance notions evaporated. A café with a dozen tables beneath a striped canopy was full to its corners with members of the opera's ballet and chorus, all calling birthday wishes as Christine arrived.

"What is all of this?" Christine demanded, and Erik halted in the farthest shadow of another alley and sneered his contempt.

"You deserve commemoration," the Vicomte excitedly bid as he pulled her to their awaiting audience. "And this may not be the sort of party Vicomtes typically host, but…I knew you would appreciate it."

A party for Christine… Hatred doubled its depths in Erik's belly to call his rival the winner of this unacknowledged round of competition. Sticking to the dark's embrace, he observed the bliss on Christine's gentle features and felt the ache to his core.

Christine raced exuberant eyes over the many smiling faces awaiting her and giggled softly as Raoul pushed, "Well, do you like it?"

"Yes, yes, of course. Thank you." She did not deny impulse as she granted Raoul a quick hug in the center of the sidewalk before eagerly joining the group. Gratitude seemed genuinely cast, but…despite an attempt to enjoy this scene of caring and congeniality, every emotion she returned felt _hollow_. It was happiness, but it had a superficial essence. Raoul wanted praise for his thoughtfulness, and she couldn't help but wonder how much of this party was for her and how much was to earn _himself_ a greater place in her regard.

Despite her suspicions, she feigned delight well and kept a confident stance as she was engulfed in birthday greetings and affections. She laughed with the rest and accepted little gifts and hugs from the ballerinas as if every detail was her greatest wish brought to life.

Raoul had a large, elegantly frosted cake brought from the café, its sweet vanilla scent wafting the small space and proclaiming its scrumptiousness. He seemed to be taking the role of proud and doting suitor to its limits, and as a chorus sang and candles were lit, he extended a small, velvet box to her.

"Happy birthday, Christine."

Her brow furrowed with uncertainty as she took the gift and lifted the cover. "Oh my…" Rubies twinkled off the sunlight and practically blinded in their brilliance as Christine lifted a gold chain and stared transfixed at the jeweled pendant. This was the sort of present one gave a lover; such an appellation was vibrantly declared through a crowd of awestruck observers.

"Well?" the Vicomte urged. "Do you like it? May I put it on you, darling?"

Rubies and a gold chain that looked so delicate to the touch, and yet she was doubtless it would weigh her down with its implied meaning. Nothing ever seemed heavier.

She never had to reply.

"A party? How uncouth of you, Monsieur Vicomte, not to invite _every_ attendant of the opera house! Perhaps inconsiderate tendencies come with the title."

Christine went numb, eyes widening to a steady gape to watch the almighty Opera Ghost leave a shadowed alcove and approach their table. All chatter halted, all attention riveted to the intruder and mesmerized on his every graceful motion. _Opera Ghost_… She heard the words fluctuate the space, cold and horrorstricken, gasps and whispers burning the air in their breathless fire. The Opera Ghost resurrected from his tomb, …weren't ghosts supposed to haunt their residences, not wander the city streets as the equivalent of mortal men? The questions flickered one after another through her head as she contemplated how she was supposed to _feel_. Angry, afraid, …guilty.

Erik's stare fixed on Christine and ignored the unworthy members of their audience. A show… Yes, let this be another show, and here was the drama center-stage. He typically wasn't fortunate enough to be an integral part of the cast, always a bystander in the corridors, _watching_. Now he was the antagonist, and they tried to anticipate his blocking and guess his intentions, but this was an opera libretto he was certain they'd never seen.

"Excuse me, Monsieur," the pompous Vicomte spoke, and Erik sneered in reply and saw it wobble his arrogance ever so slightly. "This…is a private party, and…I demand to know who you are and why you presume you are entitled attendance."

A chuckle passed Erik's lips before he could think better of it, and he saw Christine flinch to bear his open sarcasm. "_Who_ am I?" he snapped in a shout. "Would you care to ask any of those with a distinguished invitation to this pathetic party of yours? _They_ know me, Monsieur, for my reputation precedes."

"Opera Ghost…" The little Giry girl was the one to give the answer as she curled beside Christine and stared with wide, green eyes. Erik was accustomed to their terror, toying with it and pushing it beyond its boundaries for no other reason than to make them scream. It established his authority and erected a threat he could constantly exude. How much better to be the predator over the prey!

"Opera Ghost?" the Vicomte mimicked with an unconvinced grimace. "What nonsense is this? Is this some jest meant to destroy our party? Because I refuse your little game, Monsieur. What sort of man wanders the city in a mask and intrudes on private celebrations?"

Erik had the urge to state it plain, to pour the past out and set things upon their designated path. Christine was _his_; he'd claimed her since the day he'd taken his place as her teacher. She should not be receiving ruby necklaces from a haughty vicomte with underlying motives of stealing her heart away.

But arrogance met arrogance in return, and standing defiant with his ghost aura as his weapon, he snapped, "Perhaps I simply came to speak my own well wishes. Am I not allowed? I would consider myself an integral part of the company. …Don't you agree, Christine?"

She had been avoiding his stare as if uncertain whether to accept reality or not, but as the sound of her name struck the air, heaved from his lips when he typically made it something beautiful, her gaze lifted with sincere apology in blue depths. That look alone would have melted him to nothing…if not for the ruby trinket still in her hand, glistening in the sunlight. It uttered contradictions.

"How dare you speak to her without formality?" the Vicomte immediately defended. "Have you no sense of propriety? Such a misdemeanor would be deemed _rude_ in present company. Oh, this is ludicrous! A masked deviant running about town, proclaiming himself a ghost, and it seems you have everyone here in a panic believing this charade! What insanity is this?"

But Erik didn't care about the stunned silence in a continuous hover about their shapes. Only one person's opinion mattered anyway. "Would you care to tell him, Christine?" But her expression was withdrawn, and he answered for her, "No, you wouldn't. No, because I do not fit into this world, into this _life_, and it's easier to pretend ignorance than speak honesty. …I suppose I'll leave you to your celebration then…since masks have no place in happy events."

It laid thick blame, and Christine felt the lash of guilt overcome and suffocate. Only she possessed the blatant truth _why_ a mask was a necessity, and when she could have been brave and made it unimportant, she glanced at the many horrified expressions around her and the Vicomte's aghast irritation and let those details erase her every wisp of courage. Meeting Erik's mismatched stare, she saw encouragement, an urging for her to be strong, …but she refused it and stayed the quiet, little mouse huddled to Raoul's side.

"All right then. …Enjoy your birthday celebration," Erik spoke cold and harsh to her alone, and with a flash of rage, he spun about and vanished back into the shadows from which he'd come and only the looming anxiety all around insisted he'd been there at all.

"Who was that man?" Raoul demanded the second he deemed Erik gone for good.

The question was for her, but Meg bounced up and down in her fright and gave an answer in gasped phrases, "The Opera Ghost! The Opera Ghost here at your party! God help us all! Evil comes on his heels! We are all cursed!"

"Such overdone melodrama," the Vicomte decided with a forced chuckle as he caught Christine's cheek in his palm and dragged her attention from a dark alleyway. "Christine, please say this is another stunt from the theatre. Was that a fellow cast mate playing at some game for your birthday?"

"Yes," she concluded, and with one last glance at the darkness, she made it a definite answer. "Yes, exactly that. A game, Raoul, and…you know how dramatic we theatre people can be. It was all a jest. Surely you cannot fathom men walk the city in masks for any reason other than trickery and pretend."

"Exactly!" The Vicomte accepted her explanation, and yet she caught a flash of relief, as if somewhere deep inside he suspected the more she was not ready to say. "Well, …since that ridiculousness is over, let's forget it ever happened and return to where we left off. May I help you put your necklace on?"

_Forget it ever happened_… Christine was certain that was impossible, and adding a fake smile for Raoul's sake, she bid, "Yes, of course."

She felt as if her spirit detached from her body and gazed upon the scene from afar: all her opera comrades gossiping about the Opera Ghost, Raoul in a state of denial and selective accord as he lifted the necklace and placed it upon her. She moved and didn't realize she was moving, watching it happen more than feeling it as she let him clasp the gaudy jewel into place. It should have felt cold and heavy as it touched her skin, but she was numb and immune to anything but a need to push this day onward. Thoughts of birthday bliss were gone, and all she wanted now was to fix the damage she'd created. It was her only birthday wish. To make this mean _something_ in the end.

But she had to wait through an afternoon of more rehearsals, wearing the Vicomte's gift as if she belonged to him. She couldn't have told him that the throat from which it dangled was already claimed; he wouldn't have understood that or the fact that she could only give him part of a heart branded in someone else's name. It was that invisible mark inside that kept her chained to an opera house and a fallen angel, unable to break free. And today, she'd denounced the ache in her uncertain soul because she lacked the courage to state it as her choice. Erik had ventured out of the darkness _for her_, and she couldn't be brave enough to do the same _for him_.

Rehearsal was endless when she longed to be somewhere else, and within the instant the manager dismissed them, she was in a flurried rush to her dressing room before anyone could halt her with more unwanted birthday greetings. She felt as if she couldn't possibly deserve well wishes. Celebrate her life; what was she _doing_ with her life? It felt like nothing worth acknowledgement when she could just as readily cause pain.

Darting out of the corridor, she locked herself in her dressing room and settled her stare on her full-length mirror. The first thing to catch her notice was the ruby pendant, brilliant and telltale around her neck, and with a soft cry, she yanked it off and tossed it upon her vanity. It was like a beacon light, glowing and speaking words she didn't want to hear, and ridding herself of its weight was a strange liberation.

Almost within the movement of her action, the mirror opened its secret doorway, and her masked angel stood in its threshold, eyeing first the discarded necklace and then fixing focus on her as if she'd performed her necessary penance.

His gloved hand extended, and without the hesitation she'd earlier born, she took it and clasped with penitent fingers about his leather-clad palm. Never a word spoken, no valid apologies, but he brought her into the dark with him and that was enough.

It was as if the afternoon's nightmare had never happened, as forgotten as the Vicomte had claimed it, and her lesson went unmarred with consequences. She wasn't sure if she could consider that a blessing. Stoic and his usual formidable self, Erik was teacher and angel and did not cross the line to mortal man again. Part of her longed to ask why.

As the music faded to silence, roles went with it. Mismatched eyes raked over her in a more tender manner than they had all evening, and he suddenly said, "You know, I do not understand the charm of birthdays. What do they do but denote another year spent on this earth, another year closer to the grave? One would think their celebration should be morbid in its reality."

Christine did not cower under the ferocity of his stare, this time able to grab hold of bravery before it fled her fingertips. Well, of course! Without others about to have to display it, it was almost easy. She only faltered with an audience. "But birthdays show the importance of living, that one's existence matters on this earth. They celebrate the start and inspiration, not insist of an inevitable ending point."

"Ah, optimism when _reality_ is the pessimistic viewpoint and death's approach," he deduced as if it were that simple.

"No, no, you don't understand-"

"And is that why you didn't share news of _your_ birthday with me? Because you knew I wouldn't _understand_ the inherent reasoning behind such triviality? But someone like the Vicomte… Well, he would exceed his typical indulgence for your favor and make another unimportant day upon the calendar into an overdone fiasco."

"I never asked for his party-"

"No," Erik interrupted and rose from his place at the piano, "nor did you discredit his intent or his gift. You took it all in stride and made him your gallant suitor. Did you not wear that garish trinket of his all afternoon during rehearsal for every one of your comrades to see?"

"It would have been rude to take it off."

"Rude!" he snapped and made a quick approach, oddly pleased when she did not recoil. "According to your Vicomte, rude was my unexpected appearance at your party, a place where all those who _love you_ were welcomed with that common interest. _Love for you_ should have been the overriding factor of this event today, isn't that so? By _your own_ assessment, birthdays celebrate life. Why was _I_ not permitted to celebrate _your_ life? I would have deemed myself an important part of it, but that is only in the shadows, right, Christine? When no one sees or knows, I am allowed to _love_ you, to dote upon you and share your company, and if nothing more, your friendship. I can be the teacher you respect and even an ally of sorts, but bring such terms into the light of day, and it is a disgrace. I am unwelcome and humiliated as always, and it is made clear and evident that I don't _belong_ in your life."

"But you do!" she immediately exclaimed, and he longed to believe her so badly. She seemed fervent and desperate, and with only a second's hesitation, she reached out and caught his arms, clasping his elbows and fisting her fingers into his sleeves as if she needed to keep him there. He let it mean something because she rarely ever touched him, and even if barriers existed between skin, it was a freely given contact.

"Yes," he spoke contrary to his heartbeat, "as the mentor who convinces you to spread your wings and fly. I am the voice in the background, but a voice doesn't need a heart. A voice doesn't _care_ or _feel_ and can't matter in the greater scheme of life."

"Erik, please that's not true!"

"_No_, it's _not_," he agreed, and his hands lifted to grasp her elbows in matching pose, but his hold was firmer and more adamant. "I _am_ your life, but you are still too naïve to see it. You'll put up your guises and play the part they want, one where I must be only an intrusion in the world. You will make me the villain and enemy to _their_ regard because claiming what is _real_ takes more courage than you possess. For all I can give you in our time together, I cannot build your strength a foundation, and so you'll falter left and right to the _acceptable_. Because disfigured monsters have no place in _that_ life."

"Erik, stop." Tears flooded her eyes and cut him with their sparkle as deeply as a ruby's glistening opulence had.

"Why? I speak the _truth_ as I know it, and you've shown me nothing different. You made me a _stranger_ today." The accusation struck like a vicious blow, and he felt her tremble with the word's assault.

"I'm sorry; I'm sorry," she whimpered. "Erik, _please_."

"Then _tell me_, Christine. What place do I hold in your life? On this supposedly special day where those whose lives you touch may celebrate your existence, what does my appreciation mean to you?"

"Everything," she whispered and held his fiery stare in hers. He wanted to doubt and question onward, but Lord help him, he _believed_ her. It was so blatant and a revelation, a heart practically spoken without the words. And as much as he longed to cradle the hope it brought, in some vein, he hated her for being able to show him this portrait and yet not proclaim it to the world the same. That might always be her downfall, and in spite of every attempt to push her to something greater, he wasn't certain it would matter.

So all he said in reply with a modicum of disappointment was, "Happy birthday, Christine." And with that, he released her and strode away to his piano.

Christine felt dismissed, and with one final tear-filled stare at his poised posture as he purposely focused on the music laid before him, she fled his presence and rushed to her room in his underground home. There was so much more that needed to be said, but…she wasn't sure she had the letters tonight. They hovered individually and separated in the back of her brain and would not mold into full phrases.

Her birthday felt like another emotional upheaval when she'd already caused so many between them, and perhaps hope would have been addled…if not for one last surprise. As she shut herself into her room, her eyes caught on a small box set so unthreateningly upon her mattress. With timid steps, she approached and delicately traced her fingertips along its top before she dared open it. There, resting inside was a gift on a chain, another necklace similar to an earlier version from the Vicomte, but this one's pendant was a small silver charm of a heavenly angel. To look upon it and graze its metal wings with her fingertip, tears choked her throat again and tumbled unconsciously down her cheeks. …He'd given her an angel; it felt like a blessing from God Himself.

Christine did not hesitate to clasp the necklace into place around her neck, letting the charm rest in her palm as she made one last birthday wish: to be brave enough to follow her heart.


End file.
